THE WRONG TOOLS

Growing up on a small farm, I often spent time as my father’s shadow. He was my first love, my protector, my hero. By my little girl standards, he could do no wrong. He shined and mesmerized like the little spots of dew that clung to the tree leaves at sunrise each spring morning. I followed him through every farm ritual of the day, no matter how menial, until he left for work at the mill each afternoon. I was his tractor driver, his kindling carrier, his pig slopper and at times would even became his human hunting dog, fleetly flopping down when he yelled, “Hit the ground!” as he blasted each pheasant I roused into flight. Those moments were near perfection, the breathtaking beauty of a truly exquisite gem being placed in my hand. I was efficient, important and flawless. His happiness and delight in my efforts made me worthy.

As I aged and became more skillful I climbed the ranks from shadow tag-along to helper. A good portion of our father-daughter moments were still gems but now at various times became infused with lumps of coal; black, dirty and distasteful.

As a poor farmer, my father had little to no money for decent farm equipment. He had to make do with the old, the discarded, the recycled. Luckily he was a mechanic by trade and with the help of tinkering, baling
wire and a lot of cussing he was able to keep his equipment operational. I, too, frequently cursed those damnable mechanical dinosaurs because they would consistently lead me to fall from grace in my father’s loving eyes. Where the machinery was concerned, I went from helper to go-to girl. I was my father’s personal courier service, not carrying important papers from one place to another, but tools.

My father, bent over with grease to his elbows, barked out a one or two word tool demand and it was my job to run, fetch it for him and run back with lightening feet.

I heard “crescent wrench” uttered from my father’s lips and tore across the graveled road to the garage, never once stopping to think that I had no clue as to what a crescent wrench actually looked like. I then stood before the tools as seconds ticked by, my external world moving in slow motion, my brain traveling at warp speed.

I pleadingly looked at the tools willing my frantic mind to guide me to the correct one. I grabbed a tool and tore back across the road and placed the tool in my father’s out-stretched hand. He looked at the tool, closed his eyes and then looked at me. His jaw rapidly popping in and out, he said through clenched teeth, “I said a crescent wrench, not a pipe wrench….It looks…like a crescent”.

“What in the Sam-Hill does a crescent look like?” I wanted desperately to scream out, but before my thought could come to fruition, my father would turn back toward the piece of equipment and whistle some tune. I knew from experience that this was my cue to try again because when my father whistled it was only because he was really angry, restraining the urge to yell. Eventually, sometimes sooner than later, I connected with the right tool and would be back in my father’s good graces but not before the experience took its toll on my spirit.

As my childhood flew by, I strived to make the moments with my father gems instead of coal. I learned the names and shapes of those blasted tools and delivered them into the hand of my father with near perfection. I also learned the whistled version of many songs.

I’m older now with children and grandchildren of my own. I often look back on my childhood and at the lessons I learned from those experiences I shared with my father. He continues to be my hero but in a more realistic way. I bless him for the tools he handed me that made me fast, efficient, and versatile, strong enough to handle any trials that force their way into my life. But I also curse him for handing me the wrong tools that ingrained in me the notion that only when I am good and near perfection will I be deemed worthy and loved. Because with all the strength that I hold inside me, it’s that one single weakness which can still drive me to the depths of despair.

Fortunately, for every human, strong or fragile, life is a classroom. The best we can hope for is to teach and be taught by those we love which tool to use for the job at hand. And if by chance we grab the wrong tool, let's hope to Sam-Hill we can all remember how to whistle.